


how strange it is to be anything at all

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Romance, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16025366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: And this is the roomOne afternoon I knew I could love youAnd from above you how I sank into your soulInto that secret place where no one dares to go- King of Carrot Flowers pt. 1 by Neutral Milk Hotel





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And this is the room  
> One afternoon I knew I could love you  
> And from above you how I sank into your soul  
> Into that secret place where no one dares to go  
> \- King of Carrot Flowers pt. 1 by Neutral Milk Hotel

After you slip the loose, pale chemise over your head and toss it to the floor, a pair of strong arms encircles your waist. Shay trails his mouth along your back. There’s nothing like his touch, so adoring and indifferent at the same time. He loves every inch of your skin even if it’s been scratched and scabbed and scarred countless times. When his dry, rough palms skim across your stomach, you tilt your head back and sigh, finding comfort after a long day.

His mouth slots against yours in that beautiful, aged tradition of romance.

 _Maybe there’s a love story worth telling,_ you think. As you turn round and stand on your tiptoes just to brush your lips against his cheek, Shay lets loose a long, stuttering sigh that threatens to topple his broad figure. He makes quick work of his shirt and he effortlessly picks you up in his arms. _Maybe there’s a happy ending,_ and he does a damn good job of convincing you.

You can’t imagine a life away from the rogue, no, not after those late night whispers and early morning kisses. He hides you from the world in his captain’s cabin, rocking gently and serenely, like he asked the ocean to hold the two of you in the dip and swell of the tide. No one knows that you are everything to Shay Cormac. Between breathless kisses, he tells you, _I am nothing without you._

He settles you on his mussed bedsheets and presses his forehead against yours. A tease slips into his musical, lilting voice. _Now what’s with that look on your face?_ Always the curious one. _Hasn’t anyone kissed you before?_  You stroke the scar across his eye, and watches him cave into your simple touch. It shouldn’t be this simple; it shouldn’t feel this good. To be so at ease; to be so vulnerable with each other. And yet--

 _Love me like this is our last night together,_ you say to him.

Shay kisses you gently, as he’s done a thousand times over. _Let me love you like this is the last night of the_ _world_ _._


	2. Homestead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au where connor spends time on the homestead as a child; sfw

A small hand, chilled by the morning frost, gently palms your cheek, and your eyes flutter open in surprise.

There is a boy with shoulder-length hair as black as charcoal and wide, brown eyes that seem to search the depths of your soul. He  sets his chin on the edge of your mattress, flicking his inquisitive gaze all around the room. You spy a trail of trampled weeds and grass leading from the half-open window.

“Good morning, Ratonhnhaké:ton,” you whisper sleepily in Kanien'keha, and he grins a bright, toothy smile.

“Good morning,” he whispers back. While others call him Connor, he always likes to speak his first language with what little Assassins who know it. His brow furrows. “Why are we talking softly?”

“We mustn’t wake up Shay.” You slowly gesture at the pair of arms wrapped tightly around your midsection. You roll your eyes and pretend to look exasperated. Ratonhnhaké:ton laughs, then claps a hand over his mouth. “What are you doing here, little one?”

“I was s’posed to practice climbing,” Ratonhnhaké:ton grumbles. “But I think Liam just wanted me to disappear for the day.” He perks up suddenly. “You’re training today, aren’t you? Can I learn with you instead?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you by the river’s edge in about an hour. Bring your hatchet.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. He scampers over to the window and with one leg hooked around the sill, the young boy glances back at you. “Are you and Shay married? Because you’re in the same bed?”

The question catches you off guard. “Some people... like each other well enough to not get married.”

He thinks it over. “Okay.” And then he’s gone.

It is quiet for a moment, and then Shay’s mouth presses softly against the nape of your neck. He rolls over until he’s perched above you, his legs tangled with yours. He kisses you again, this time on the mouth, slowly and half-dreaming still. He mumbles, “Married? I didn’t think you were the marryin’ type.”

“I could change my mind. For you.” You tug him down for another sleepy kiss. Your fingers curl in his long, messy locks, and his stubble grazes against your jaw. The Assassin groans, letting his weight sink heavier against your body, and for a moment you think that he’s going to fall asleep on top of you.

“Maybe I’ll put a ring on your finger,” he murmurs.

“Hmm. I know a couple of captains who could ordain us. Adéwalé. Le Chevalier--”

Shay presses a finger against your lips. “Those are  _ terrible  _ suggestions.” You sneak a kiss against the calloused palm. His knuckles are split and worn but those killing hands caress you delicately. “If we’re in need of a captain, I’ll go out to the seas. Find a vessel. Officiate our own wedding on my very own sloop-o-war.”

“Just for us?”

“Only for us.”

You meet Ratonhnhaké:ton, Achilles’s ward and youngest trainee at the Homestead, at the determined time and place. He’s been passing time by leaping across the river banks. Large stains on his pants and bare feet show that he’s slipped a couple of times, but he abandons play and follows hotly at your heels as you head into the forest shooting range.

Boy, does this kid like to  _ talk _ . He rambles about how his mother has been teaching him how to leatherwork so once he’s good enough to take down a large animal, he’ll be able to skin and tan the hide and perhaps make his own weapons and clothes, except he hopes the timing will be just right because the best season, depending on which elder you ask, could be--

You ask him to throw his hatchet-- passed down from an elder in his clan, made with a proper grip padded with sinew-- at the nearest oak, and without missing a beat, Ratonhnhaké:ton hurls the axe in a smooth, practiced motion. The smooth bonehead buries midway in the bark. It takes him a few minutes to wrestle it back into his possession.

You gradually increase his distance from the tree. Whenever his aim falters, the young boy grows more and more determined to perfect his skills. You stand to his side and practice firing arrows at targets hanging high above in the branches, painted with crude stripes and bull’s-eyes. Once you’ve finished with all twenty-four arrows in your quiver, the two of you climb the oak to retrieve the arrows.

“You and Shay,” Ratonhnhaké:ton puffs as he extends a hand to help find your footing, “How long have you been sleeping in the same bed?”

_ Kaniehtí:io is going to kill me. _

“Not for long. Relationships usually start out as friendships, and then you get to know each other more personally. I’ve known Shay for a while, but we only started to consider romance a year ago.”

“Romance? And then that leads to marriage?”

“It depends.” You straddle a branch and yank a target within arm’s reach. “Careful not to warp the arrowheads. Sometimes people figure out that they prefer to stay friends. Other people get married. But when you’re an Assassin--”

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I know.” No doubt Achilles or Liam has lectured him about emotions getting in the way of skill. There’s been enough debate and discussion at the Homestead to realize that relationships were second to the mission objective. 

“There have been some Assassins who married, however. Your grandfather, for instance.”

“Will  _ I _ ever marry?”

“If you want. It should be a personal choice between you and your partner.”

Once the arrows are collected, you descend to the forest floor and begin to make your way back to the Homestead. Ratonhnhaké:ton replaces the hatchet in his belt and jogs at your side, spinning and leaping with too much energy excitement. He grabs a fallen branch and raps it against every tree he passes. “So who loves each other more?”

You look down. “What do you mean?”

“Between you and Shay. Who loves more?”

You lightly poke his shoulder, and he returns the playful gesture. “Well, I think that we love each other the same amount. Being in a relationship is not a competition. It’s not like a game to see who has better aim or memory. Love can be when you work towards the same goals and help each other grow stronger.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton hums. “That’s nice.”

“I’m sure everyone has their own definition of love. Why don’t you ask Shay?”

“Love,” the dark-haired, black-eyed Assassin whispers between shy kisses as the two of you find a private moment in late afternoon, your body flush against his, hiding in the shadows of the mansion’s stairwell, “is realizin’ that I would give anything to wake up next to you every morning.”


	3. Coincidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw ahead folks

Enough about ballrooms, high-end banquets, neck frills, and starched collars.

It’s far more interesting to sneak into tavern basements with a couple of stools, a table or two, and an amateur band if you could scrounge one up before dawn turns dusk. There are plenty of taverns with owners willing to open their empty cellars to the tide of revenue dubbed as nightcrawling. Patrons drank above, then went below to dance and cheer and lose the rest of their minds.

The crowd places their attention to the center of the room where barefooted couples would dance and profess any emotion they desired: infatuation, disgust, and the like. It was most fun to grab random individuals and hurl them in the straw-strewn middle, just to see their reactions. Someone grabs your elbow, then your shoulder, and tosses you into the center.

Tongue already heavy with alcohol, you yield to their demands and spin round to see your dancing partner-- lo and behold, Shay Patrick Cormac with rumpled clothes and mussed hair. Already stripped of his boots, shifting his weight side- to-side in anticipation or a drunken stupor. His head tilts upon seeing you. A face from the past, a name passed between associates. Long-lost, found again.

“Is this coincidence?” he asks in that handsome Irish brogue.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” you say, toeing off your shoes.

“That’s so peculiar.” Shay grins wolfishly. “Neither do I.”

He grabs your hand as the fiddle’s melody picks up, its zeal enticing the rest of the crowd to clap and whistle along. The music distracts from the near-overwhelming stink of alcohol on breath and the musty cellar atmosphere, and instead paints a scene worth celebrating. As if it recognized familiarity between these two souls, the song shifted into something ephemeral; something worth a hard listen over the crowd’s raucity.

But there’s no time to hesitate, no way to stop the flow of music, and Shay spins you round, his hands resting heavy and solid against your waist. His voice drifts just audibly. “It’s been how long? Two years? Three?”

“You didn’t ask me to count the days,” you reply, turning to face him. After a quick curtsy in corduroy trousers borrowed from a stablehand, you place your palms on his chest and tugging at his lapels to step close, _closer_ , until your noses barely brushed against each other.

“Count this time, okay?” Shay then creates space between your bodies, then closes it the next instant, sweeping your legs. The world dips upside-down and you shriek in surprise. “I’ve got you,” he reassures with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

His eyes drop down to glance at your lips. There’s a moment where the two of you consider what a kiss means to people who don’t believe in coincidences. Like there was a legitimate plan to reunite you in the same nightcrawling tavern, on the same night, randomly selected as dancing partners-- a logical reason besides the universe’s mischievous antics.

The moment your eyes meet again is like a shock down your spine, stoking a grueling heat in the pit of your stomach, driving every instinct to say--

“Kiss me,” you demand, and Shay unhesitatingly complies. It is nothing like those romantic, sweet touches that you’ve dreamt about or read in novellas; this is everything you could’ve ever needed. His kiss is like the first strike of flint and steel; a flashfire, a moment of scorching heat against skin.

The crowd unbelievably amplifies their cheering. His mouth still against yours, Shay drags you from the center of attention and back into the midst of people. His hands are on your face; your hands are tightly knotted in his hair; you can’t get enough of each other’s touch. “Where to, now? Upstairs, outside, home?”

“Wherever you want,” you breathe back.

Maybe it’s the alcohol or the proximity of the tavern, but the two of you stagger upstairs, acquire a key, and stumble inside a room, the door barely shut before you’ve tossed the shirt over your head. Shay does the same, showing off a scarred chest tanned by ocean voyages. An old wound pierces his left side and you trace over the raised lacerations.

He groans, then sweeps you in for more kisses. These one burn longer as his tongue sweeps against yours, tasting gin and tonic, seeking the most intimate places in your mouth. It’s a filthy kiss but you can’t get enough of Shay. The Irishman guides you to the bed and pushes you down, sliding his hands up your thighs and your bare stomach.

His lips find your collarbone, then teases along your undershirt as his hands slips past the fabric to grind slowly against your stiff nipples. You curse and grab at the bedsheets, crossing your legs to stop that incessant heat from worsening. Shay sweetens your mouth with another strike-fire kiss, then relieves the rest of your clothes.

“Would you count the days for me, now?” he asks breathlessly, unbuckling his belt and tossing it to the floor. “I could never keep track.” You drag your calloused fingers along his pale and white scars, loving how Shay tilts his head back and stifles a moan.  

“Days apart? Or how about days together?”

“Ah, that’s a rich idea.”

Shay kicks off his trousers and then kneels on the mattress, his hand wrapped around his cock and slowly tugging along its length. He takes one of your hands and covers it, showing you how to stroke him just the way he likes it. His mouth crashes against yours. He delves deeper, wanting nothing but your taste, your touch, your skin against his.

If it were this easy to fall in love, you’d have slept with Shay years ago.

You ask him to lie down on the bed and nestle between his legs, hands gently pumping his cock. You tentatively flick your tongue across its broad tip and Shay’s hips jerk upwards. His eyes flutter half-shut, a fist jammed between his teeth; the other hand, like yours did before, claws at the sheets. And just like he’d shown you how to pleasure him, you guide his hand to your locks.

“Y--you sure?” he stammers, gazing down with wide eyes, blown pupils.

Your answer is another wet lick against his hard cock and Shay fists your hair, pulling gently at first. As you take him in your mouth and loftily tease pleasured moans from his lips, he tugs harder and harder-- one particular yank has you moaning around his cock and he digs his heels in, shivering with enough force to rock the bed.

Shay coaxes you to let go even if his throbbing cock says otherwise. He pushes himself up and tugs your hips to slot against his, your slick cunt helplessly wanting the slightest friction. In the midst of catching your breath and stealing quick kisses, he slips between your folds at a slow, hesitant pace. You bury your face in his neck and hold him tightly as his thick cock pushes past the initial discomfort-- and then pain turns to _pleasure_ and lust seizes your senses and you want more, you _need_ more, bucking in his lap as you gasp out his name--

\--and the two of you, wary of coincidence, or the conjunction of meeting just at the right time and place, chase your orgasms in this drunken, infatuated haze.

“ _Je-sus_ ,” Shay manages to say, brushing a lock out of your face and kissing you deeply, “You’re perfect, you really are. Shite, where have you been all my life?”


End file.
